The Art of Love

by Gayla Twist

  “You have beautiful hair,” Alix tells me. “So thick and wavy.” I don’t know how genetics works as far as hair, but I don’t have the poker-straight hair that a lot of Eurasians get. Mine is black and stronger than rope, but it also has a bit of a wave if I let it. “We could layer in some lovely highlights,” he suggests. “I can see everything from blonde to red.”

  Dahlia steps in here, giving him a stern look. “Stop trying to pad the bill, Alix. She wants something where she doesn’t have to drop three hundred dollars every six weeks for a touch-up.”

  Giving a good-natured little laugh, Alix runs his fingers through my hair and says, “Well, you can’t blame a girl for trying.”

  “We want to keep the length,” Anna tells him. “Just add some long layers and give it motion. That way she can still pull it back for work and also let it loose for a night on the town.”

  I feel instantly grateful to Dahlia for introducing me to her friends. They really seem to know what they’re doing.

  While Alix is conditioning my head and snipping at various bits of my hair, Erin and Anna give me a pretty comprehensive lecture about makeup. So much about how you apply it, apparently, has to do with the shape of your face, lips, and eyes. Not to mention how much eyelid you have available to use as a palette which, for me, is not very much. I’m not a big makeup type of female, but the fabulous lip gloss lesbians are so supportive and enthusiastic that I’m actually having fun. The only part I find alarming is when Erin comes at me with a contraption she calls an eyelash curler, but it looks more like the thing they used in A Clockwork Orange to keep that one guy’s eyes open to watch the films.

  “So, tell me,” Dahlia says as she lounges around the salon watching my transformation. “Didn’t you ever have any women in your life to show you how to do all this before you came knocking on my door?”

  “I was raised by my mom and my grandma and my three aunts,” I tell her.

  “What are they? Hippies?” Dahlia idly flips through a magazine with an air of nonchalance, but it’s obvious she’s interested in my story.

  “No, they’re all natural Irish beauties,” I explain. “It has to be a really special occasion for any of them to invest more time in their looks than washing their faces in the morning. They don’t have to.”

  Dahlia thinks the whole thing over with a puzzled expression on her face. A life without excessive grooming or silk stockings or designer accessories seems beyond the realm of her reality. “How totally bizarre,” she finally concludes.

  After Alix finishes up with me and has taken a sizeable slice off of my checking account, we head to our next location, Theodore's Haberdashery. There are fashionable men's suits, shirts, and hats displayed in the window, so it seems a little peculiar that we are going there to work on my wardrobe, but I trust these ladies know what they are doing.

  It turns out, the dapper little man called Theodore and his crew do more than sell impeccable menswear; they are actually some of the best custom tailors in all of Chicago. Dahlia had insisted that I bring my chef’s jacket and pants with me, and now I understand why. I get changed into my work clothes, and they put me up on one of those mini-platforms in front of a three-way mirror. Theodore himself oversees while an assistant name Victor tucks, pins, and chalks my various angles and curves. Not that I have many curves, but the tailors are determined to make the most of what I’ve got.

  When they’re finished, I can’t even believe I’m wearing the same pieces of clothing. I look almost shapely. Part of that has to do with Erin’s insistence that I wear a pushup bra. “Just because you don’t have a lot of cleavage doesn’t mean you get to ignore it,” she explains. I haven’t exactly been ignoring my boobs, but what I do have usually does just fine with a sports bra. But the lip gloss ladies will not tolerate my gray, stretched-out jogging bra. Anna visibly shudders when she sees it. From now on, my breasts are to be pushed up and cinched together at all times. To hear them talk about it, I should practically be wearing one of these contraptions in my sleep.

  The final stop on my makeover is Madigan’s Department Store to overhaul my wardrobe and apply the new laws of makeup that I’ve learned. Dahlia makes no pretense that she is not happy with this venue. “Can’t we go someplace that’s a little more…” she pretends to search for the right word, but I think that’s just for show, “exclusive?”

  After my hair and the tailoring, I can already feel my budget collapsing under the strain. “Maybe you can,” I tell her, “but sous chefs don’t make all that much, and I’m still paying off culinary school.”And probably will be for the next century.

  Sighing, she gives me a shrug. “So? Charge it.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I’m not that kind of person.”

  “What kind is that?”

  “The kind who can wantonly run up a credit card bill and still be able to sleep at night,” I explain.

  From her expression, I can tell that I’m still a bit of a mystery to Dahlia.

  “Let’s start from the ground up,” Dahlia tells the lip gloss gals once we’re standing in the lady’s clothing section. “I’ve seen her wardrobe, and it is in need of a complete overhaul.”

  “Since when have you seen my wardrobe?” I want to know.

  “Checkered pants, rubber clogs, white jackets.” She waves a hand at me. “I get the picture.”

  “Oh, and you think that’s all I have, just the clothes I wear to work?” I know Dahlia has been nothing but helpful to me so far, but she’s crossed the line into pretty darn insulting, and it’s getting my back up.

  “I assumed.” Dahlia looks at me, askance. “If I’m wrong, please enlighten me.”

  I don’t want to get in a fight with my neighbor, but I also have my fill of bitchy with Kiki at work, so I turn to Erin and Anna to say, “Don’t listen to her. I do have some nice things.”

  “Of course, you do.” Anna pats my shoulder. “Let’s get you some super flattering basics, and then we can build out from there.”

  By the time they’re done with what is known as “a few basics,” most of my savings is gone, but standing in front of a dressing room mirror in a fitted black dress with my hair and makeup done, I don’t even recognize myself. I look more like an attractive, fashionable cousin that I’ve never met. Clapping, Anna hops up and down in place she’s so excited.

  “What do you think?” Erin asks.

  “Not bad,” Dahlia has to admit.

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” Erin tells her. “What do you think, Sue?”

  I’m so pleased, I’m almost a little misty. “This is perfect.”

  Being made over is exhausting. By the time I get home, every part of my body aches. That was more tiring than working a double shift on the weekend. I drag my numerous purchases into the house and then just kind of sag onto the couch. Still, it was a good first full day of my campaign.

  My cell rings, and I fish it out of my purse. The caller ID reads Elliot. I freeze. Why the hell is he calling me? If you could list every single person on the planet that I could talk to in order of my preference, he’d pretty much be way down on the list, just above the serial killers. But still, maybe he’s just calling to see if I have any of his precious T-shirts over at my place or something like that. Against my better judgment, I answer my phone with a hesitant, “Hello?”

  “Quitter,” is all I hear.

  “Elliot?”

  “Quitter.” He’s saying it quickly and in a voice slightly higher than his usual speaking voice.

  “Elliot, what do you want?”

  “Quitter.” This is what Elliot probably sounded like his freshman year of high school before his voice fully matured.

  “Is that all you’re going to say?”

  “Quitter.” High school is probably giving him too much credit. Maybe middle school.

  I’m tired and in no mood for a thirty-two-year-old man having a tantrum like an adolescent boy. “Okay,” I tell him, “if that’s all you’re going to say then I’
m hanging up now.”

  “Quitter.”

  I hang up.

  The phone rings again, and I send it straight to voice mail. When it rings again after that, I turn it off.

  Does Elliot seriously think this is the way to handle our breakup? Calling me up to accuse me of quitting? How does that even make sense? For the zillionth time, I feel a wave of relief that he is out of my life. Time to move on to greener pastures. Trent Winchell–type pastures. And tell losers like Elliot goodbye forever. Feeling re-motivated, I pry myself off the couch and head to the bedroom to hang up all my new clothes and put away my makeup. I’ve got a war to wage.

  I show up for work in the morning feeling so confident that I go through the front entrance of the hotel and into the lobby instead of how I usually skulk in through the employee entrance. I’m wearing a new floral skirt, a few inches shorter than I would usually buy, but this is the new me and therefore hemlines are allowed to rise. I’ve also got on a red sleeveless top and a pair of low heels. My hair is looking good, and my first foray into doing my own makeup armed with my new knowledge has turned out pretty good. I carry my chef’s garb with me in a lightweight garment bag.

  I feel really good, like I can take on all challengers. My confidence is boosted when I notice a flock of men in suits looking my way appreciatively. Now, if I can only have the good fortune of running into Trent as the new me, my campaign will have really started off right.

  Instead, I have the misfortune of running into Kiki, who scowls at me like I’m tracking dog poop across the floor. “What are you doing here?” she asks.

  “I work here,” I tell her. It’s not like I’m crashing a wedding or anything.

  “Yes,” she counters, “but you’re supposed to be using the staff entrance. Not parading through the lobby.”

  First of all, Kiki’s a bitch, but secondly, I must be looking good because she appears to have her nose out of joint. I hear footsteps and turn to see Trent and Aziz walking by in friendly conversation, both looking excessively handsome in their tailored suits. “Good morning, ladies.” Trent flashes us his standard smile. Then he does a double take, his eyes raking me up and down. “It's very nice to see you this morning, Sue,” he says. This causes Aziz to turn and give him a funny look and Kiki to scowl in a most unflattering way.

  The men keep going, not bothering to stop and chat. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Aziz turn to look back at us. He’s frowning, and for some reason, this causes Kiki to smirk. Still, I think my point about using the front entrance has been made. “Well,” I say to Kiki, “if Trent doesn't have a problem with me in the lobby then neither should you.” Before she can come up with some annoying reply, I start walking again, sailing right past her on my way to the kitchen.

  ***Kiki***

  My God, Sue is predictable. “Gee, I think I’ll get a makeover and then Trent will see that he should fall in love with me.” Seriously? Wasn’t there a series of teen movies all about this kind of crap in the late nineties?

  In Sue’s defense, she does look a lot better. She’s actually almost pretty. But it’s going to take more than a new haircut and rudimentary knowledge of makeup application to land a white whale like Trent. You can’t overhaul your entire attitude and outlook on life in a single day with only the direct application of a credit card.

  Trent sure did look her over pretty good, though. Sue might make the mistake of thinking his wanting to tarnish her shiny virginal surface is a sign that he’s truly interested in her. I’ll have to keep an eye out for that. I’m more than willing to spike the ball into Sue’s face to access Chicago’s elite, but there is a scummy side to men like Trent that even naïve little idiots like Sue shouldn’t be exposed to. Besides, her blundering could easily derail my plans.

  There’s also Aziz to think about. His reaction to Sue’s appearance was also quite interesting. Something to store in the databanks in case things get ugly.

  ******

  Paolo and Aspic are sitting at a table playing cards. They look up, totally unconcerned when I walk in the kitchen. It’s obvious they haven’t given any thought to starting the prep work for the dinner shift. Neither has anyone else, apparently, because besides them, the kitchen is practically empty.

  “Where is everyone?” I ask.

  Paolo spares me only a glance then does a double take. A wolf’s smile spreads across his face. Aspic’s button eyes are shining as he takes in my new appearance. There is some gratification that my hard work has initially paid off but also some embarrassment. I really don’t feel comfortable being the center of attention.

  “Ay, Suzannah,” Paolo tells me, “you look nice. You change your hair or what?”

  Ignoring his question, I ask, “Why isn't anyone working?”

  Aspic and Paolo exchange looks and both shrug. “We take it easy,” the Italian explains. “You are in charge, right?” He flashes me a smile.

  I can’t even begin to express what’s wrong with his assumptions about me being in charge, so instead I say, “Where's June?” She’s usually fairly responsible, even without the threat of Escoffier.

  “She in the back,” he tells me, taking in a view of my legs before going back to his cards.

  As I turn to head for the locker room, I think I catch a glance of someone eavesdropping on us from the dining room, but the person ducks away too quickly, and I can’t see who it is. I have my suspicions, of course, but it doesn’t seem worth the time to find out.

  “June,” I say as I see her by her locker.

  She’s standing there talking on her cell phone. As soon as she sees me, she holds one finger in the air in that wait-a-minute gesture that I pulled on Elliot. She continues her conversation by saying, “So Tommy said he would pick some up on his way home, but by the time he showed I was totally starving.”

  I think if people realized how much they sound like teenagers when talking on the phone, public use of cell phones would plummet dramatically. I step closer to June, cross my arms, and glare at her impatiently. June looks up, surprised with just a hint of apprehension. “June!” I hiss, for some reason still reluctant to embarrass her in front of whoever is on the other end of the call.

  “Uh... Listen,” June says into her cell, “I've got to go.”

  June hangs up and then gives me a cautious look. Keeping my arms crossed, I tell her, “Get the kitchen staff together. We're going to have a meeting.”

  “Okay.” She’s more than willing, especially if it means putting some immediate distance between the two of us. “But,” she pauses, “our mighty saucier called in sick.”

  “Antoine?” I wonder aloud. This is actually a bit of good news. “Even better.” He is definitely the Bouche employee that will be the hardest to get on my side, so it’s best not to have a dissenting voice in the crowd. “Now move!” I tell her, and she scoots for the door. God knows where all of the staff is hiding.

  Chapter 11

  "In order to kill the enemy, men must be roused to anger; that there may be advantage to defeating the enemy, they must have their rewards." ~ Sun Tzu, The Art of War

  In larger restaurants, there is the front of the house and the back of the house. Servers, bartenders, hostesses are all out front. We workers involved with food prep are the back. If Kiki and I are waging a war, then her troops are out front, and mine are in back. I can’t fight her by myself. I can’t save the Winchell all on my own. I have to have the support of my troops. And I have to have it now.

  I don’t know what June said to the rest of the staff, but it only takes a few minutes before everyone is assembled in the kitchen to hear what I have to say. Well, they’re assembled, but not exactly waiting with quiet respect or anything like that. They’re chatting amongst themselves and having a good time like it’s a holiday and they just happened to have shown up for work.

  I’ve quickly changed into my newly tailored chef’s whites to give me more of an appearance of authority, but I’m inwardly just cringing. I hate addressing groups of p
eople. Hell, I’m barely any good at one on one. But still, if I can’t get the Bouche kitchen staff behind me, then I might as well surrender now.

  “Uh... excuse me? Everyone...?” I start. Whenever I’m nervous, if I don’t concentrate on it, my voice climbs in pitch a couple of octaves until it sounds like I’ve taken a hit of helium.

  It doesn’t matter anyway, because everyone is still talking. I catch snatches of their conversations. “Don't go there on a Saturday,” from some guy.

  “He said what?” an incredulous female voice asks.

  “I hate that chick,” a dude says with conviction.

  I take a deep breath and try to focus myself. The first thing I need to do is gain their attention, and I just don’t have a big enough presence to do that standing on the ground, so I pull a chair over from where we clock in and climb up on it.

  “Quiet!” I bark at them.

  Much to my surprise, everyone immediately shuts the hell up and gives me their attention.

  Taking a deep breath, I plunge in. “Now I'm sure everyone has heard that Escoffier is taking some time off to get some treatment for his gout. And while he’s gone, I’m the chef de cuisine.”

  “And we're all on vacation!” crows Pedro, one of our more freewheeling busboys. Everyone in the crowd seems to agree with him, and they all give a little cheer. “Yeah! That's right! He said it! Time to take it easy,” I hear various voices say.

  “That's right, Pedro.” I give him a tight grin. “You can take your vacation. But it'll be in the unemployment line.” This comment quiets everyone down pretty quick. I turn to address the crowd as a whole. “As a matter of fact, that goes for all of you.”

  My words leave people astonished. No one can take it in. “What?” June says.

  “You would fire us, Suzannah?” Paolo asks, sounding a bit hurt.

  “No, I wouldn't fire you,” I assure him. “Not unless you forced me to. But just because I'm in charge doesn't mean you get to goof off while Escoffier is away.”